Iwas aware of the noise, loud bass pops, before I wondered what it was. At first it sounded like percussion, machinery, or backfires, but irregularity or duration ruled each out. A drummer would be rhythmic, a contraption consistent; an operator would turn a suffering engine off. I went outside to see what was going on.

The sound came from the avenue, one of the broad uprights of the city’s grid. It was wintry early evening, the sidewalks flecked with people, the streets with traffic. There was a fire truck and a police car on the far side of the avenue, and passersby looking back in the direction of our building. About two-thirds of the way up the block in the near, downtown lane was a manhole cover. Steam poured from the pick holes, and the sound issued from thence too, muffled but loud. There were firemen walking up and down or standing, as if waiting to be told what to do. I had a conversation with a delivery guy. It seemed there was an electrical fire below the surface of the avenue. Nothing had been done yet but officialdom was on the case.

Back in our apartment, we began to smell it. We are on the superstition-christened 14th floor, and there are nights when the wind moans in the side panels of the window air conditioners like the damned. But the quantity of steam being ejected was too prodigious to be dispersed; the noxious taste of it invaded our space. Impossible to cook in the kitchen or eat at the dining-room table, which both face the avenue. We retreated to the other bedroom, my wife’s psychoanalytic den, and cleared a space for plates and forks.

There are two places across the avenue at which we are takeout regulars, and two others at which we are not. The world lay all before us. Phoned an order to the Italian place and went down again in half an hour to pick it up. The event, whatever it was, had meanwhile grown in scope and chiaroscuro. Steam now hissed from a second manhole cover, and there were flames shooting up out of the first. A young man with whom I did not share a glot said something which I did not catch the first two times, but turned out to be, “Godzilla awakens!” Cinema, the universal language. I crossed the avenue to go to the Italian place. Cops had closed off the downtown lanes, where the fire was, but cars still cruised uptown. As I passed the Thai place, our second regular spot, the owner, a kindly older man, stepped outside, took my arm, and warned me to be careful. I moved up the block. At the Italian place the order was not yet ready, so I stood watching the flames out the window. A child noticed the ruckus, no one else seemed to. But the prize for unfazed went to two adults outdoors. Even in winter the Italian place sets out a double row of tables and synthetic wicker chairs. There, in the 30-degree temperature, a few yards from hellmouth, sat a couple enjoying their dinner. A waiter brought them martini glasses on a tray. I took our order home, where we ate more comfortably if less defiantly. At some point the thumping stopped, and the steam stink. Then, just as we were going to bed, the lights went out. This was part of the cleanup sequence. The fire department had been unable to quench the fire until the utility, which owns the malfunctioning cables, gave them the go-ahead. Once the fire was out, the cables had to be repaired. So the power coursing through that portion of the lines was cut. When it was restored, at 3 a.m., all our lights flashed on. And then, after a grumble, peace at last.

Gotta love the city and city-dwellers. We take it, we move on. Godzilla? Invite him to join the Thanksgiving Day parade, he requires no assembly. But that attitude also makes us inattentive. We are bursting with migrants, SJP (Students for Judenrein Palestine) closes bridges and tunnels at whim, we have forgotten that ubiquitous graffiti sucks. Sometimes you have to notice.